


new year, new me?

by theoneinquisitor



Series: tumblr prompts [6]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble, Love at First Sight, New Years Eve, One Night Stands, Sex, Some sex happens, Strangers to Lovers, Tumblr Prompt, look idk what this was but i love it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 13:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14113362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneinquisitor/pseuds/theoneinquisitor
Summary: the one where Bellamy falls in instant love with Clarke Griffin on New Years Eve





	new year, new me?

**Author's Note:**

> another fill i never posted on here from tumblr. better late than never  
> come hang out with me: octannibal-blake.tumblr.com

Bellamy falls in love with Clarke Griffin basically the moment he sees her. And this is problematic for a variety of reasons, the first and most important being that Bellamy Blake doesn’t fall in love. He falls into bed and it’s worked pretty damn well for him. He never gets attached, never lets romantic feelings creep into his heart, thinking strictly with his…brain.

So maybe he doesn’t fall in love with her on the spot. He’s not even sure what love feels like, but his heart does something that feels vaguely like skipping a beat and for him, hell, he might as well get down on one knee and pop the question.

It happens like this.

He’s working his shift in Purgatory (both literally the name of the bar he works at and a metaphor for how it feels) on New Years Eve, flirting for good tips and serving copious amounts of alcohol. It’s crowded, though mostly filled with hipsters who enjoy singing drunk karaoke even on nights when they should be out dancing in an overpriced club with silly hats on. He’s wiping down the counter, pulling the soaking wet dollars from their place next to a spilled gin and tonic, when she comes marching up to the bar.

She’s a flurry of blonde curls, a paper crown hanging loosely from her head, and she’s really fucking angry. Her eyes, a sharp shade of blue, are practically setting the entire bar on fire and all he can do is stare.

“Give me the strongest drink you have,” she demands, digging in her tiny bag for a wad of cash, and looking completely and utterly…this is when his heart does the thing and he almost clutches his chest like he’s about to have a heart attack.

He’s been surrounded by women in their slinkiest dresses, covered in sequins and leaving very little to the imagination. He’s been surrounded by men in their tightest pants and button ups. But here this blonde princess sits, in her Carrie Fisher t-shirt that says ‘rebel’ and beat up leather jacket and he can hardly control himself.

Trying not to look at her too long, lest he be labeled the creepy bartender, he busies himself behind the bar, pouring an awful mix of alcohols and cocktail mixers. He’s making it up as he goes along but he doesn’t think she’ll care.

When he slides it across the bar, she’s gone and her purse is left unattended on the counter in front of him. Deciding to be an actual gentleman for once, he pulls it behind the bar to safety before one of these leeches snatches it. He sighs, thinking maybe she got whisked away before she could get her drink, and contemplates drinking it himself (because it’s a sad waste of alcohol to just pour it out), when he happens to glance at the stage and watches her shove her way onto it, though clearly it was not her turn.

“I need this,” she snaps at the girl who had been just about to grab the microphone and she shrinks away quickly. His heart promptly does the thing again. Fuck.

She covers the mic with her hand and says something to the DJ, who has the smarts not to argue with her at this point. He nods and she gives a solid thumbs out to tell him she’s ready.

It’s a song he doesn’t recognize and he should really be paying attention to the throng of people pushed against the counter waving their cash in the air trying to get his attention, but he gives his best friend and boss, Miller, the finger when he tries to get him to focus. He is definitely focused. Absolutely.

He’s not sure he can survive another heart skip, but then the mysterious girl flips her hair and begins belting out the lyrics –

“I’m a mother fuckin’ woman! Baby, alright!,” she’s shouting it into the mic, though not off key by any means, “I don’t need a man to be holding me too tight!”

The crowd is loving it, like most drunk crowds do, but she’s putting on a show and he’s enjoying it about as much as they are.

And then it happens, though he won’t realize it until much later, the whole falling in love part. Her eyes find his and she sings, “I’m a motherfucker!”

He watches her the entire time, enamored by this beautiful angry girl who appeared from nowhere. He’s still rooted to the spot when she hops down from stage and makes her way over to the bar. Wordlessly, he points to her drink and she gives him a look that seems to be gratitude and downs it in about ten seconds flat.

Somewhere in that ten seconds he finds his ability to form coherent thought and gives a low whistle.

“Bad night?” He concludes and she finally plops down into the vacant seat in front of him, leaning on her arm and groaning.

“The fucking worst,” she answers for him. On a whim, he decides she seems like a whiskey girl and holds up a bottle of in question. She nods a little too enthusiastically and he pours a shot for her because he’s a good bartender and the lady wants a drink, damn it. But then as he offers the shot glass, she grabs the bottle and pops off the spout to drink from it.

“I’ll pay you for the bottle,” she informs him after her first swig and he’s losing all brain function. Though frowned upon in bartending etiquette, he takes the baby shot for himself hoping it will allow him to get his shit together. Miller will forgive him later.

“Did you want to talk about it?” He finds himself offering and it’s really not the time to play counselor, especially when they have the holiday crowd. But he’s really curious and she seems like she needs it.

She takes another drink and regards him for a moment before shrugging, “Or you could meet me in the bathroom in ten minutes.”

He nearly chokes on air. He hadn’t expected that. He finds it almost funny that the first time he’s offering to do something just for the sake of being nice, it gets turned into a proposition. He wishes he were a better person, that he could be the kind of guy to tell her no and ask what’s bothering her so bad that she wants to sleep with a stranger in a dingy bathroom. He wishes he were better but he isn’t.

Bellamy Blake doesn’t do the right thing. Doesn’t fall in love. He falls into bed. So he stares at her for only a moment, though his hesitation does speak volumes, and nods.

“Make it five, princess,” he smiles and she gives him the finger before taking another drink.

He tells Miller he’s going on break and leaves before it can be turned down. He shouldn’t do this, he really shouldn’t. But he does.

He catches her standing near the bathroom doors but he decides he’d rather not have someone disturb them. He shakes his head and grabs her hand, noting somewhere in the back of his mind that he likes the way it fits in his, and takes her to the supply room. It’s a little bigger than the bathroom with a perfectly good wall to fuck against.

When he turns to face her, she’s nodding in approval, “Better.”

She pushes him against the door and plants her lips on his. They’re feverish with anger and lust and he tries to push back with as much but she’s almost overwhelming. In the best ways. Her body is pinned against his and he can feel every delicious curve, the hard rhythm of her heart. He’s ready to devour her and she him but he isn’t a complete asshole. He wants her to be sure.

He removes his lips and she looks almost hurt for a moment.

“How drunk are you?” He has to ask, he doesn’t care if she regrets it later, only that she wants it now. Consent is important.

“That god awful concoction you made was my first drink,” she tells him and he laughs.

“So not drunk?”

She rolls her eyes at that, “Drunk with rage, maybe.”

“You’re hot when you’re angry, Princess,” he swears he almost sees her blush but she plays it off with another eye roll and a push against his chest.

“Clarke,” she corrects and he likes the way her name rolls off her tongue.

“So we’re doing the name thing?” He wasn’t sure whether to ask, he would have been fine either way and at this point, she’s got the reins on this.

She gives him a wicked smile before leaning up, purposefully pushing her chest against him, and her lips brush his ear, “Only so I can hear you scream it.”

His last bit of restraint snaps and he picks her up by her ass to push her against the wall. Clothes are pulled up and around, but never fully off. Just enough to enjoy it. It’s rough and angry, she leaves teeth marks in his shoulder and he leaves an angry bruise on her collarbone, and he does actually say her name. He also manages to tell her his, mostly because he’s living for her breathy moans and expletives and he really wants to know what it sounds like coming out of her mouth. She doesn’t disappoint. Just as she falls over the edge, she practically growls it in his ear and he immediately goes with her.

They don’t move immediately, they just stay pinned against the wall breathing heavily. He’s a little overwhelmed at the moment because he’s had a lot of sex in his life, good sex, but nothing has ever come close to this. He’s trying to figure out what happened, how a quickie in a storage room could ever be his greatest experience. How this angry princess just barged into his bar and rocked his entire world. What the actual fuck?

She gives a soft pat on his back and he assumes it means she wants down. They reassemble their clothes in silence, though more to catch their breath than out of awkwardness. When he turns around she’s biting her lip and looking like she wants to cry. His stomach nearly falls through his ass.

“Didn’t help?” He asks softly. He shouldn’t care at this point, he got what he wanted. Right? Right?!

She lets out a shaky laugh, “I’m a fucking train wreck.”

He wants to tell his mouth to shut the fuck up, but it opens before he can think about it, “We have about an hour until midnight and a bottle of whiskey you claimed.”

She seems hesitant so he shrugs, “The offer to talk about it still stands.”

To his surprise, she takes him up on it. She sits in front of him the rest of the night and tells him about finding her girlfriend in bed with her ex. About her ex boyfriend who did the same damn thing and how she thinks it must be her, why else would it happen twice? He lets her get drunk, lets her cry angry tears, and he reassures her that it definitely isn’t her, that her partners make their own choices, dumb ones at that. He still serves the other customers around them, though never strays too far from Clarke’s stool. Miller, to his credit, seems to forgive his friends lack of focus on their busiest night (which, turns out, is because Miller could tell his friend was a goner).

The countdown to midnight begins and Clarke sighs, “Here’s to next year being less shitty.”

“Amen.”

She gives him a sloppy kiss on the cheek and then he cuts her off, much to her displeasure. He doesn’t want her to black out, subconsciously because he really wants her to remember this night. He asks if he can call someone for her, sadly. He would happily take her home if there wasn’t another three hours left of his shift and he didn’t bum a ride with Miller. She argues for ten minutes before she finally agrees, sliding her phone across the counter. He goes to her call log and looks for her most frequently contacted. Process of elimination tells him that the name with the kissy face and heart emoji is a big no and her mom wouldn’t be a good choice either. He taps the name Raven.

She picks up on the second ring.

“Clarke Penelope Griffin, where the fuck are you?” The girl on the other side of the phone screams.

He just grins and looks at Clarke, “Penelope?”

She groans, “Shut up.”

He introduces himself to Raven and explains the current situation. She tells him she’ll be here in ten minutes. And she is. She peels Clarke from the stool and eyes him briefly. He’s not sure what it means but nods in what he thinks is approval.

“Thanks for taking care of her,” she says as he hands over Clarke’s purse.

“No problem at all,” he replies, and he actually means it, “She’s a motherfuckin’ woman.”

Clarke gives a full blown smile at that and raises her hand, “Damn, right!”

He high fives her with an equally big smile.

Raven watches the exchange curiously before turning her friend toward the door, “Lets get you home, Kesha.”

“Happy New Year, Bellamy.” And damn if he doesn’t still like the way his name sounds on her lips.

“Happy New Year, princess.”

As he watches her go, he can’t help but feel extremely satisfied with his decision to put his number in her purse. Even more so when he gets a text two hours later. Not a bad New Years Eve at all.

Bellamy Blake doesn’t fall in love. Or he didn’t used to, at least.


End file.
